A Poem to My Mother

We named you Caitlin, you said. After the poet’s wife.
I didn’t know who Dylan Thomas was.
I knew I didn’t want to be anybody’s wife.
*
Barbie is a model citizen.
Blond and busty with inaccessible genitals.
You bought me one.
I pulled off her limbs and buried them under the sofa.
You bought me another.
*
The first time I felt shame:
I snuck into the living room, concealing my naked body in a blanket.
You demanded that I show you
what was underneath.

I did not know, yet, how to speak in full sentences.
*
You marched me to the family’s house;
your hostage in flower print and hair barrettes.
The family said you look so pretty.

I learned later that pretty is a word with teeth.

I wish I could have told you:
I’m not your fucking Christmas tree
to decorate with glitz and gaud
to show off and then throw away
when my color turns: a fraud.
*
Doctor: Your mother says you don’t know who you are.
You: That’s right. She slicks her hair back and won’t cross her legs.
Doctor: I’m talking to Caitlin. Caitlin, how old are you?
Me: Six.
*
Sprouting toward womanhood, my limbs shivered when I caught sight of the saddle bags attached to my fat ass.
You just gotta exercise Cait, you told me.
I was incredulous. I couldn’t figure out how they got there.
*
I had started shooting up again.
Veins stretched along my arms
like rivers dredging the earth’s surface —
I plunged
into them
forgetting my skin
exchanging it
for the craggy floor below
your delicate sensibilities.

We don’t talk
for years.
*
I resurface
*
You call me to explain:
I had to sever the relationship, Caitto soften the blow from the inevitable phone call
bringing news of your death..

It had been so long since you told me I love you

Afterwards, I went upstairs and looked in the mirror.
Misty eyed, I took a razor blade to my breast.
*
The next time I saw you,
you told me I looked pretty.

Instead of saying thank you,
I looked down at my hips and thought:
You condemned me to this.

Later, the word pretty gnaws on me while I try to sleep.
*
I sat, with morbid stillness, fingering
the phone.
That day, I called you and said:
I’m changing my name.
You haven’t called me Caitlin since.
*
After the doctor
takes a scalpel
to my breasts,
you will see me;
a gift I have waited for.

You will help me unwrap
my body
stitch by stitch.

I will weep
as you sit beside me:
the child who
opens the present.
*
I have emerged.